Bollywood Babes (17 page)

“She's doing
what
?” Auntie's eyebrows almost flew off the top of her head. “What in God's name is a Touch the Car competition?”

“It's pretty self-explanatory,” I replied, handing her Kim's copy of
Masala Express
. After school, Kim had asked me to give it back in a reasonably assertive tone, but I had refused. Rather aggressively, I'm sorry to say.

Auntie scanned the article. “Well!” she said at last. “This beats everything, even for
her
.”

The front door opened. Molly and Dad came into the hall, laughing and chatting.

“Oh, hello, I saw Molly on the Broadway on my way home from work and gave her a lift,” Dad said defensively, all on one breath.

Molly had already spotted the copy of
Masala Express
in Auntie's hand. “Oh, so you've found out my little secret,” she trilled with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “What do you think?”

Dad looked confused. “What little secret?”

Silently Auntie handed him the magazine, and we all watched him closely for his reaction.

“Well!” said Dad at last. “I think that's fantastic. And you're doing it for the school?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Molly agreed. “The publicity will be excellent.”

Maybe I was being too sensitive. Or maybe I was just getting to know her a little better. Either way, there was something in her manner that didn't quite ring true.

“Are you going to sell the car and give the money to the school if you win?” I asked bluntly.

Molly smiled. “Oh, I'm not going to win!” she said. “Little old me up against two big strong men? I don't stand a chance.”

“She could take them on with one hand tied behind her back,” Jazz muttered sourly, as Molly swanned into the living room. “And trample all over them.”

But was our dad the prize she was
really
going for?

The party was in less than two weeks, and after the party there was no reason for Molly Mahal to stay here any longer.

But by then it might be too late.

T
he Touch the Car contest began on Friday afternoon at 5 p.m. By this time, it appeared that everyone in the school knew about it. It had become the single, the only topic of conversation at every opportunity—break time, lunchtime and even during lessons. Mr. Arora, like Dad, was almost overcome with admiration and, in our very hearing, had called Molly an “inspirational woman.” Mr. Grimwade was walking around in a daze, probably calculating how much money the school could raise if Molly sold the car and donated the profits. Molly Mahal T-shirts were everywhere like a rash. More posters had appeared along the Broadway. Tickets for the party were selling fast.

“What
are
Molly's chances of winning this ridiculous
contest?” Geena asked. We were on our way to Mr. Gill's Kwality Kar Emporium, where the competition was being held. Naturally, we weren't going to miss it.

“Oh, who knows?” I said. “Standing and touching a car for hours doesn't seem to require a great deal of skill. Anyone could do it.”

“Ooh, no,” Jazz broke in. “It's the ultimate endurance test. A battle of wills. You need mental toughness and physical stamina to succeed.”

Geena and I raised our eyebrows at her.

“I saw it on a Web site,” Jazz muttered.

“Do you want her to win?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” sighed Geena. “If she wins, she'll impress everyone, including Dad. And if she loses, she'll be brave little Molly who did her best.”

“Where are these people
going
?” Jazz asked, perplexed, as a steady stream of students barged their way past us, all heading in the same direction. One of them was George Botley.

“George”—I tapped him on the shoulder—“you live in the opposite direction, remember?”

“Ha ha, you're funny,” George retorted. “I'm going to watch the Touch the Car competition.” He elbowed his way past us.

Geena cast up her eyes. “We should have guessed,” she murmured.

“I hope we can get into the showroom,” said Jazz. “I don't want to miss it.”

“Let's run,” I suggested.

We rushed off toward the Broadway, where the Kwality Kar Emporium was situated. However, the other people who were going that way soon got the idea, and eventually there was a big crowd of us all dashing down the Broadway like marathon runners. It did at least have the advantage of sweeping everybody else out of our path like a giant broom.

Mr. Gill's emporium was already almost full, and at least half the people there were wearing Molly T-shirts. The showroom had been cleared of all the cars except for the prize of a silver Ford Ka, which stood on a raised platform in the middle of the floor, decorated with red ribbons. There was no sign of Molly yet.

“There's Mr. Arora,” said Jazz as we pushed our way through the tall glass doors. Mr. Gill, a short tubby figure dressed, strangely, in an ill-fitting dinner jacket and bow tie, was ushering people inside. “And Mr. Grimwade.”

“I do believe that's Leo next to him,” remarked Geena innocently.

I scowled. My face soured even more when I spotted Kim just behind Leo. She was chatting to a young Indian man in his twenties, wearing a baseball cap and baggy jeans and carrying a notebook and pen. I guessed that he was the Chowdhury neighbor who worked at
Masala Express
.

“Hello, girls.” We turned to see Uncle Dave beaming at us. Behind him were Auntie Rita and Biji.
“Well, what do you think? Is Molly going to win the car?”

“She's quite old to stand for hours on end,” Auntie Rita sniped. “Her back will probably give out.”

“It's ridiculous,” Biji grumbled. “Touching a car? What kind of a foolish activity is that? Hey!” She waved her stick at Mr. Gill. “Don't you have a seat for a poor, helpless old lady?”

“About as helpless as a killer shark,” Jazz muttered, as Mr. Gill rushed over with a plastic chair.

The showroom doors had been closed now, leaving a small crowd of people outside in the yard, their annoyed faces pressed against the glass. Among them I could see Mrs. Dhaliwal and her entire family, and Mr. Attwal.

The air of excitement in the showroom was almost tangible. There was a rustle of anticipation as the office door opened, followed by a sigh of disappointment as Dad, Auntie and Mrs. Macey stepped out. We edged our way through the crowd toward them.

“Where's Molly?” I asked.

Auntie raised her eyes heavenward. “All the contestants are in the office,” she said. “Of course, Molly had to ask for a separate dressing room to ‘prepare' herself. Typical.”

“She needed somewhere private.” Dad leapt in to defend his heroine.

“Did she get her own room, then?” Geena asked.

“Well, they cleared out the cleaner's broom cupboard
for her,” Auntie replied. “When we left, she was demanding Perrier water and ginger biscuits. Once a diva, always a diva.” Her eyes strayed across the room toward Mr. Arora, who was chatting to Mr. Grimwade. Mr. Arora glanced in our direction, and Auntie instantly withdrew her gaze.

“I'm sure Molly's going to win,” Mrs. Macey said eagerly, looking as if this was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for years.

“Amber”—Kim had appeared from nowhere and was tugging at my arm—“this is Miki, from
Masala Express
. He wants to ask you some questions about Molly.”

“All right?” the young man in the baseball cap said laconically. He flipped open a notebook. “So you're friends of Molly Mahal's?”

“No, definitely not,” said Jazz.

“Yes, we are,” I said, stepping hard on her toes.

“Ouch,” Jazz grumbled.

I could see Miki Chowdhury's nostrils flaring as he scented the aroma of a story.

“So how do you know her then?” he asked, becoming slightly more animated.

“We just do,” Geena said repressively.

“What's it like having a film star staying with you?” Miki queried.

“It's one long laugh from morning to evening,” I said.

Miki tapped his pen against his teeth. “Any funny
stories? Amusing anecdotes? Heartwarming happenings?”

“Not a single one,” I replied.

Miki shrugged. “Thanks, you've been a great help,” he said in a heavily sarcastic tone before walking off.

Kim was looking disappointed. “You could have been a bit more forthcoming,” she muttered.

“And told him what we
really
think of her?” I inquired. That sent her packing.

There was another rustle of anticipation as Mr. Gill stepped up to the microphone, which had been placed at the side of the Ford Ka. The contest was about to start.

“Welcome,” began Mr. Gill loudly. The microphone screeched and everyone covered their ears. It took a few minutes to adjust it, and then Mr. Gill began again.

“We are gathered here today,” he said, with great pomp, “to witness the ultimate endurance test. A battle of wills. A show of mental toughness and physical stamina …”

“He's seen the Web site,” Jazz whispered in my ear.

“We have three contestants here today who are going to strive to do their very, very best,” Mr. Gill went on. “And here at my Kwality Kar emporium, we also strive to give you the very, very best. For example, we have a Honda Civic, a very nice family car, going cheap for just—”

He was elbowed out of the way by Miki Chowdhury.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said. “Please welcome the editor of
Masala Express
, Mrs. Anjali Desai.”

There was a very faint smattering of applause, but people were also muttering with dissatisfaction. It was one minute to five o'clock and everyone was longing for the contest to start.

“May I say …,” began Anjali Desai, who was all teeth and big hair and shiny gold jewelry. “May I say how honored I am to be here for today's competition.
Masala Express
has a very important place in the Asian community, and—”

“Get on with it,” called a voice that sounded suspiciously like George Botley's.

Mrs. Desai drilled a contemptuous stare into the crowd. “Our contestants in today's Touch the Car competition are Mr. Vijay Anand, Mr. Akbar Khan”—a few people clapped—“and Miss Molly Mahal, the well-known Bollywood legend.”

The cheer that rang out almost lifted the roof off the showroom.

“No bias there at all then,” Geena muttered.

On cue, the office door opened. “We Are the Champions” by Queen boomed out of the speakers, and we all pushed forward to get a better look. It was rather an anticlimax when two men trotted out. The first was short and plumply rounded and shoehorned into a shiny blue tracksuit. The second was tall and
thin, hunched over like a mournful heron in shorts and singlet. There was no sign of Molly Mahal.

Mr. Anand and Mr. Khan advanced to the platform.

“Mr. Anand?” Anjali Desai pulled the short, tubby man over to the microphone. “What are your battle tactics?”

“I plan to keep myself going with high-energy snacks and plenty of water during our breaks,” puffed Mr. Anand, who seemed breathless after just the short walk from office to platform. “I'm going to win this contest!” He raised a clenched fist, and there was a faint cheer from some of his supporters in the crowd.

“And Mr. Khan?” Mrs. Desai turned to the mournful heron. “How about you?”

Poor Mr. Khan. Nobody heard a word he said. For that was the moment Molly Mahal chose to make her entrance.

The office door opened again. Molly stepped out, and a hush descended on the whole audience. No tracksuits or shorts for her, but a gold sari, shimmering with deep purple embroidery, and high-heeled gold sandals. Her hair was swept up on top of her head and woven with purple blossoms. I could not have come up with a less suitable outfit for a Touch the Car competition if I'd thought about it for a week.

“That's not one of my saris,” Auntie said faintly. “Where did she get it?”

“Those shoes,” breathed Geena. “She won't be able to stand for five minutes.”

Seeming confident and relaxed, Molly Mahal walked through the audience toward the platform. She held her head high. Everyone was spellbound. The glossy sheen of celebrity was working its magic on everyone.

The clapping began. A wave of thunderous applause that reached its crescendo as Molly Mahal stepped onto the stage. There was absolutely no doubt who most of the audience wanted to win.

“Miss Mahal, welcome!” fussed Mrs. Desai, taking her arm. Mr. Khan, who had been rudely shoved aside, looked rather irate. “How do you intend to approach this contest? Tell us something of your tactics.”

“My tactics?” Molly repeated huskily. You could have heard a pin drop in the showroom. “My tactics are simple. I just want to do my best, even if I don't manage to win.”

There was another rousing cheer, although Mr. Grimwade looked a bit concerned. Molly inclined her head graciously at the crowd and waved. Her fans went wild.

“Now, the rules,” announced Mrs. Desai. “The winner will be the person who remains standing and touching the car for the longest time. Contestants will be disqualified if they remove their hand from the car or if they fall asleep. There will be breaks of fifteen minutes every two hours, and twenty-five minutes
every six hours.” She looked sternly at the contestants. “Contestants will also be disqualified if they overrun their breaks. A representative from
Masala Express
will constantly be on duty, and their decision is final. Is that clear? Then let the contest begin.”